Yates of Hell
by Unwriting
Summary: A little rewrite of the final scene in Criminal Pathology (17x02) to address the unspoken, underlying parallels. Olivia accompanies Rollins in her prison visit to Yates, finding herself under the surgeon's knife.


**Wow. Hiatus sucks. So. A little rewrite to the final scene of Criminal Pathology, since the parallels were too uncanny to not imagine some on-screen recognition. Started this forever ago, dropped it, then picked it up again. So I hope this isn't too awful.**

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The metal digs into your back as you lean against the holding cell, observing the match playing out before your eyes. Amanda and Yates circle each other, calculating, dealing blows in a mental game of wrestling. As Amanda delivers the verdict of the case, every so often Yates's eyes drift down towards her stomach, and you unconsciously clench your fists when his lips tip up into a perverted smile. Disgust crawls along your skin. Surely he didn't know. You can't help but feel protective, and the instinct almost pulls you from your guarded position at the entrance to the cell.

"Wait. He gets away with Lena's murder." You feel a fleeting moment of sympathy for the man whose pain and disbelief seems almost genuine.

Amanda clasps her hands on top of the table, leaning in as if bait on a line. "Well, he'll still do 25 to life for the other two charges. Maybe you two will be roommates one day."

Yates chuckles, a shallow, sad expelling of air that dies as it leaves his lips. You hear something else in that hollow laugh that sends a chill down your spine. "He did it, you know. Lena. He strangled her to death."

Amanda tilts her head to side, brows pinched as her questioning gaze quickly shifts back to you. Crossing your arms, your eyes meet hers, equally as perplexed with the knowing submission. She returns her stare to Yates, whose lips quirked at the short exchange. "Her skull was also fractured."

Yates waves his hand in dismissal. "Strangulation was the cause of death," he corrects adamantly, resigned. "Skull fracture was post-mortem."

You push yourself off the barred door and step your way over to the table, halting behind Amanda. "You sound pretty sure about that."

"I'm just piecing it together, but if I had to guess, Lena was his first time." At your challenging stare, he continues. "Carl screwed up, and he had to call someone with more experience to help him finish."

You share a knowing glance with Amanda. Playing dumb, you push, "And how did this _person_ help?"

The casual, flippant air he had held in discussing his wife's death turns quickly, a chill freezing over the breezy tone he'd held this whole damn visit he arranged for. It leaves you unsettled, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "He probably advised Carl to keep Lena alive as long as possible. Such a waste to have her die so quickly."

As he breathes out the last word, his eyes flick to you like a switch, and the implication behind his words sends the depressor plunging, flooding your veins with fear and a chilling realization. Looking into his eyes mirror a look you'd seen before; a hazel gleam with fiery flakes of hell lapping at the iris.

"Is something wrong, Sergeant?" The concerned question is undermined by the smug, slightly amused grin that fills every crevice in his face. You shift your gaze to the floor, not giving him the satisfaction to view the flash of pain that danced in your eyes. You return your focus to his face, and the steely resolve you had etched into your features slowly begins to melt in the heat of his stare.

It is as if he is reading you like a book; tearing through every dark chapter in your life, dog-earing the sections that you had hoped would remain untouched after they had been so thoroughly examined by a number of scientific, investigative and judicial eyes. You feel his calloused fingers running along the lines as you maintain eye contact, and it sends a chill down your spine. It's been months since you've felt this exposed, this raw and vulnerable. Pages blown open. It unnerves you. It fuels him. He knows. You assume it's easy for him to recognize the markings of his own archetype. He cuts into people for a living. What was to keep him from doing the same to you?

You slam the book shut.

"We're done here," you whisper, wincing as your voice cracks with the last syllable.

As soon as the buzzer sounds, you rush through the doorway, nearly colliding with the correctional officer that slips into the holding cell. Your steps slow as you distance yourself from the barred space, but the aggressive pounding in your chest continues its erratic dance in your ribcage.

Rollins steps beside you moments later as Yates is shoved by the guard in the direction of his cell block. You refuse to return the gaze she has set on you, clenching your jaw as you stare unblinking down the corridor. Your face begins to grow hot as she continues to stare a hole into the side of your head; until his voice pulls her attention away.

As the guard leads him down the hallway, Yates calls over his shoulder, "Did you know Williams is the third most common last name? No wonder we both changed ours. How unoriginal."

The pair of blue and green disappear around the corner, a flash of cool color that seems to blend together. But you know there exists a fine line between where those cross over. Your own piece of hell had come to you in a weathered green jacket.

Amanda tears her attention from the now-empty passageway and swivels to face you, her eyes seeking yours; imploring and unknowing. "What the hell…?"

"Yeah," you huff out, your eyes still glued to the corner. As if he might jump out at any moment. But you know that reality isn't where his face will make another appearance.

You share a sad smile with Amanda as the gates of hell you thought you had so carefully locked threaten to burst wide open.

You locked out the gatekeeper a year ago.

But it appears someone else had a copy of the key.


End file.
